As we stood there in the vast and gentle mist, flanked by homes made of brightly colored boxes, transfixed by the black rolling mounds of solid lava, the emerald moss, the seabirds calling and the ravens answering back, we knew at least we had made it there. That we had crossed the sea together to stand in our own silent thoughts, arrived separately, islands unto ourselves, that was something on its own.
I have never been a stranger to loneliness, and have often thought that I have lived my life in all its worst moments a slave to companionship outside of my own awful thoughts. To be standing in a low cloud, to be nothing more than the content of my being, I was struck by an urge to break free. To become an ugly scream, skin splitting, arcing from the pile of my mortality a bird into that mist.
But I am the contradiction of loneliness.
Sprung from my flesh not a bird in the mist, an excision of a certain hope contained in a bowl of porcelain. In its place an emptiness, as undefined as my shrouded companion, I am filled with the fog over Reykjavik, the concern over what will emerge from the gray, or if I shall go into it and be lost.
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